


The Overcast

by writtencrow



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Monsters, Multi, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-26
Updated: 2017-07-27
Packaged: 2018-12-07 04:17:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11615700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writtencrow/pseuds/writtencrow
Summary: A wave of displaced energy following a corporate crisis affects the Overwatch team - and a few reluctant outliers. Can they work together to determine a better outcome? The answer might shock you.aka clickbait it's almost 2:00AM I'm doing my most here.





	1. Prologue

Genji Shimada was never one to complain overly much - the occasional request for healing tossed in Angela's general direction had been as far as he was willing to go. The pre-dawn light of the Horizon base (artificial – thanks, Winston) was barely creeping across the floor when he’d slipped out of bed, unable to sleep, and creaked; groaned, & wobbled his way toward a distant platform. He ached; but he did not complain. 

That being said, the now-incubus found it difficult to love an inorganic body.

His body, specifically.

Phantom pain filled every limb; from the pockets where his connective tissue for knees used to be to the tendons of his heels and above - all of it ached; a permanent moment of his shameful agony frozen in time.

He supposed Hanzo would’ve loved to have known that. Genji settled back on his heels to reflect on their current predicament.

Hanzo's demonic tendencies had manifested themselves differently from Genji's own - which was fair enough. Outside of stubbornness and pride; their only similarity seemed to be each strove to be more different than the other: Hanzo repelled; whereas Genji drew in. Hanzo preferred stealth and solitude, whereas Genji basked in the comfort of many others. Hanzo’s stormy 

Hanzo was thunderstorms. Genji was blazing sun. 

On the subject of blazing sun; during the second wave of disasters following the omnic crises (yes, plural), Angela had changed as well - her true form now a horrifying mishmash of biblical nightmares. Six faces; several wings, burning wheels - all carefully tucked under a swanlike exterior; delicate and diminutive - until it was not. 

Her touch now burned him; when he still had flesh - it could be as lethal as it was, well. Merciful.

But now he felt so little Genji wondered if it'd matter. 

He’d let her destroy him. Gratefully, now, more than ever.

…In terms of matter, the rest of their team seemed to be falling apart - Jack, ever the martyr, had been the first on the scene - the first to wrap his body around a veritable grenade and hold it down to save them all. It hadn't worked, of course, but it had done to Jack exactly what'd been done to Reyes - put his body in a state of perpetual decay. Now a "zombie", some called it, he shambled his way around the base, vacant and empty - horrified at what he'd become, and what might've become of Reyes now.

When they ran into Reaper again, it was more shocking than they could've possibly imagined: Jack and he had essentially changed places. The weathered face of the soldier; now scarred and lifelessly cold, gazed into the warmer hues of a restored man; whose dark eyes still bore shadows of the hate that'd propelled him into actions still almost fully unknown. The weight of Reaper's transgressions hung between them, until:

"Reyes?" Jack rasped; his voice sawdust on pavement - barely a whisper. Gabriel had shrugged, tugged on his shirt, and - still with his chainsaw voice; now slightly more discernible, responded:

"In the literal flesh."

Flesh. They’d all lost pounds of it – lost parts of themselves in this most recent epidemic. It’d been just a simple recon mission. Something needed investigating in Bangladesh – a destructive force outside of town that had decimated a Vishkar origin point; a 'light factory', expanding outward till pieces of the world seemed warped and destroyed. Craters had opened up, and reports flooded in of “monsters” roaming the otherwise-empty streets…

So Lena had flown them in – she was good that way. Quick, efficient - surprisingly concise. A supposedly-simple recon to report to Winston what they’d found. 

Genji shut his eyes, reflecting. Distantly, he could hear the static sounds of the base coming to life – or what was left of it – in the early morning hours. Soon, the collected affected would meet to discuss the possibilities of their lives ahead. An uneasy alliance had formed between the members of Talon presently experiencing what Angela was calling the Nightmare Fallout, Overwatch and other members of their world.

A world it would now seem was flooded with remnants of old movie monsters – Genji flexed a hand and gauged his current demeanor. Waking up in Tracer’s plane; itching without an ability to scratch, hungry without means of consumption – yearning without knowing what he wanted – came back to him in an instant. It seemed unnaturally cruel; all that had occurred. 

They’d only been trying to do their jobs.

In the window overhead, he saw the Widowmaker pacing – her long legs carrying her to and fro on a beam not meant for walking – yet there she waltzed, her arms suspended, as if clasping an unseen partner. The glass around her was see-through, hence him glimpsing her – but she was unreflected. Colder than ever, she took blood samples from Angela’s lab and downed them by the pint. To her credit, Angela said nothing whatsoever – albeit Ana and Fareeha had both given her a dirty look.

“Better our gathered samples than your actual, physical blood,” Angela had informed them both idly. “I’m a lot of things, but I’m not—!”

“A miracle worker,” both women had chorused in the same exact monotone. “We know.” And the conversation had been left at that. For the time being, anyway.

Lowering his gaze, Genji saw the Cowboy – McCree – striding along in a pattern almost mirroring Widowmaker’s own. His face was gaunter under his hat – why he wore that thing indoors, Genji would never fully understand. But Jesse was washed out; paler than ever, looking savagely wrecked. Their proximity to the moon in the Horizon base proved…discomforting for him in particular, though Winston assured him whatever malady affecting him relied on a different cycle than that of the regular “homo lupus”. To which Jesse had snapped, “I ain’t that and I don’t got Lupus,” which really wasn’t helpful to anyone – and he apologized for it later.

Winston had said it was fine – he’d expected as much, regarding mood swings. 

At that point, McCree had thrown a chair and strode away, and Reinhardt had expressed delight at the fact that said chair was solid steel – and had dented the wall. 

Genji could still see it, sometimes – in the dent, in the tension between his colleagues (and enemies), and in the patient way the robots among them seemed to be assessing the situation. Orisa, Zenyatta, and Bastion conversed about them all the way the old hens back home would cluck about who Hanzo and he were going to marry off – what should we do with them, they need to take better care of themselves, and so on, and so forth. 

But what Genji Shimada could see, over and over, was the many shattered parts of omnics strewn around in piles. The curved, obsidian-slick walls of warped craters – an empty factory blazing against the hot Bangladeshi sky. The smell of street food, urine, and something even more pungent – like chili or similar. Picking his way through the discarded remnants of someone’s Great Idea. Lifting a hollow mask from the ground; the metal plate of which was intended for an omnic that looked vaguely like – 

And then it all went white.

Genji opened his eyes to find Lena – what was left of her – leaning over him. Upside-down and vaguely translucent, she smiled and waved – perpetually frozen with her hair flown up and her bright eyes trapped behind her pilot lenses. Genji hoped she could tell what was left of his face was smiling behind his mask.

“I am sorry, Miss Oxton,” he said, getting to his feet with a gradual – careful – stretch. “I did not know I was keeping anyone waiting.” There was a blink and a jitter; and the ghost of Lena Oxton shuddered into view once more.

“No, it--!” A blink, and she was gone – then back again. “It’s jjjj--!” There was something along the lines of static, and Genji waited – patiently; as Zen had taught him. “Just – it’s time to, it’s…” She faded out slowly, then, and Genji felt his heart sink. It had been one thing to trap her here, body and soul, but – as only soul, Angela found it difficult to keep calling Tracer back from the brink – wherever it was. Every time she flickered back into view, she looked a little bit more frightened than before. 

It almost broke his heart.

If only he could feel that.

All Genji could really feel, over and over, was that nagging tug at his navel; the heat in what flesh he still had, and the occasional ache in his brow – as if something was probing the back of his forehead; trying to force its way through. Hanzo had complained of an ache whenever people came near him. Genji, who tried not to complain, said nothing of the ache he felt whenever people left him alone.

“Genji?” His eyes flickered back open behind his visor – he hadn’t remembered closing them. For the briefest of moment, the vision of Angela seared him – a fiery column more than a person, struggling to contain herself. But he squinted and she was Mercy again; Lena nowhere to be found. The clamor of the day’s beginning was replaced; briefly, with a ringing silence – and Genji realized then that he was laying on the floor, rather than sitting. 

A metallic hand clasped one that singed the air, and as she had done so many times before, Angela held him tight and raised him from where he’d fallen. 

“Thanks,” Genji murmured, swaying on his feet. The medic and scientist; friend and colleague, eyed him with concern – her hand hovering closer to him lest his legs fail him and he should fall again. “I am sorry – I believe I lost track of time.”

“You have not been eating.” Genji’s fingers twitched; a bitter half-smile lodging itself against the interior of his mask. 

“Don’t really need to anymore,” he offered blandly, inclining his head. Angela opened her mouth to suggest something else; then closed it – her lips pressing into a hard, thin line. For a brief moment, as her lids lowered, Genji could see the solar flare that was her eyes; sharp and searing. The moment passed and he untensed - unaware that he'd even stiffened at all.

“We’re convening in the mess hall,” she said quietly instead, motioning for Genji to start walking. “We’re going to discuss options.”

“Options?” Genji; ever-obedient [much to Hanzo’s surprise; for starters] began to trudge toward the cafeteria, straightening his shoulders. “Reversals?”

“Containment, at the very least,” she called over her shoulder; turning the opposite way. Genji felt a tug behind his breastplate he could’ve almost sworn was…something. Wetting his lips absently, the … whatever he was now … strode ahead toward the great hall, flexing and unflexing his fingers once again. Nervous habit. It didn't matter. Couldn't really feel that, either. 

“Containment,” he echoed softly to himself, pushing open the door.

“That’s what got us here in the first place.”


	2. Moonshine & Moonshadows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We focus on Jesse McCree and his current experiences. The tip of the iceberg begins to protrude from the chaotic sea...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Contains body horror and bitterness. Also some gore? Potentially.

Jesse McCree and the Night Sweats – now that was a band name.

It’s what Jesse told himself as he woke, tangled in the sheets, shivering up a storm, arms wound around himself for warmth he couldn’t find – then found too much of. He hadn’t felt this sick since the day he ate an urchin without askin’ what it was – some fancy rich people food he didn’t know he’d have an adverse reaction to.

Wealth had never bothered him before.

He’d gone on the recon with the full team intending only to keep a lookout – as he was supposed to do. McCree was a flanker; one hand on his pistol and the other on a flashbang. His sharp eyes could detect eminent danger and far-off alike. One time, he’d managed to sharp shoot an incoming shuriken away from an unsuspecting Mei. Albeit, she’d had her headphones in and it was just some advanced training, but he counted it as a personal win. Genji had chosen to use a table leg instead of a shuriken the time following, and McCree’d walked around with a bruised jaw for weeks. 

Say what you want about the Overwatch crew – Jesse liked that they knew how to have rough n’ tumble fun.

But that fateful day had been a little too rough and tumble for him. In all honesty, he found himself wishing more and more that he’d never gone on that confounded mission to begin with. He had no business with omnics – other than being a human and therefore the automatic opposition, that is. He could stand apart and take a neutral approach to most things – being a man figuratively rooted in a gray area, he swayed whichever direction the wind blew. His tumbleweed intention rolled off wherever it was needed most, or least likely to die, more like. It was selfish, sure, but Jesse had never implied he was anything other than utterly self-serving.

So what if he’d been curious about this mission? An abandoned factory? The potential for upgrading his hand with some of Symmetra’s unsavory, if useful tech? Not that he had any use for an explode-y, melt-y beam thing-y, mindja. But ti couldn’t have hurt to just have somewhat of a shield matrix for his person. He was pretty squishy, after all.

And maybe, just maybe, McCree had wandered off a bit – flanking, of course, meant not always being with the rest of the pack. Crew. 

Jesse shut his eyes and swallowed, metallic hand reaching shakily for the water bottle by his bedside – only to find it empty, crushed, and left on the floor. With the others. And the others. A sea of problematic plastic that’d leave Winston wincing about their dying environment for decades to come.

Some of them didn’t have decades, though.

At first, he figured he’d been one of the lucky ones. One of the…unaffected; somehow. The weird…warping that had followed the triggering of some unknown entity in the shelled-out area had left him…unchanged, other than an irritable feeling under his skin that Angela (mis)diagnosed as a rash, and the occasional aches and pains.

The first month had passed without incident – other than Jesse noticing he’d gotten twitchier around certain noises or…scents. Everything seemed sharper than before; his Deadeye keener than ever. It was a perk he almost felt bad about – 

Until the full moon came to balance his guff. 

He remembered leaving the shower after a training session and all but falling against the sink when his legs gave an almighty, aching twinge. His hands, grasping ceramic so hard it damn near cracked (it did, he found out later), scrambling for purchase on the smooth surface as something inside of him threw the rest of his body forward. His forehead; smashing the foggy mirror and leaving blood to course down his face. The unfogging glass slowly revealing something twisted; with matted hair, open mouth full of fresh razors, and eyes yellow as the sin called Greed.

The rest of the night had been a blur. And then another, come morning, when he didn’t report in and someone was sent to fetch him. Angela, painstakingly reattaching his metal arm with a silent tension between them.

“Guess you were wrong; doc.” His half-hearted “joke” falling flat as Angela simply stared right through him with burning eyes…

And now it was time for round two. Six, actually, since this…joy tended to culminate in three nights out of the month. Something they seldom mentioned in them old movies.

Ride it out, he reminded himself, teeth chattering. His mismatched fingers balled up in the sheets as he felt the first tell-tale twinge in his spine. Ride it out. His back bowed and, of no accord he could tell, his body jerked and rose. Jesse wound his fists more tightly in the sheets—then the mattress. He clung, desperado to the last, trying to focus on the memory of that day – to retrace his steps, to avoid this situation in the future.

Hell to a future. Hell to future situations, like this or any other. Jesse McCree had the distinct feeling in his narrow, shifting, creaking, groaning bones that there wouldn’t be anything left for him at the end of all this. He didn’t even think he’d be left at the end of all this.

When the penny dropped, so did he. A glance into the shelled-out Vishkar premises had proven fruitless—leaving Jesse stranded when the initial issues began. 

The moment was echoed in the prickling of his flesh; goosebumps breaking out across his body – itching like hives, forcing, little burst by little burst, hair on his body to thicken and grow. Pores swelled and opened. Skin felt both boiled and cold; sloughing around of its own accord. It was….hallucinatory; dizzying. His foot twitched and the joint of his leg at the knee went backwards. When he screamed, it was a guttural sound cut short by an expanding ribcage cracking and cutting; bones briefly shredding still-fragile skin. The lungs he relied so heavily on for so many things gave up on him at last, flattening and then ballooning again in his chest. His body flipped and flailed. The back of his head struck the headboard and the spatter of blood went unnoticed – it was hard to pay attention to much of anything when one’s body was on the fritz.

The joint of the leg opposite performed a similar maneuver to the first – flipping inward and expanding with a sickening reset – the kneecap’s only warning was a vague twinge before it snapped free, and this time, the sound Jesse made was much lower; thicker, and full of rage at the agony he now had to endure three nights out of the month.

Drool pooled around his mouth, joined by blood, sweat, and of course, tears – he wasn’t ashamed to say the sensations made him cry. Fuck, when he’d lost his arm, he’d laughed – the shock of it all, Angela had said later, had been too much for him. But this wasn’t shock. It was…gradual. An onset. It was…

Harder to think, then. His skull was suddenly putty; being shaped by the hands of an unforgiving lunar mistress. His forehead sloped; jaw unhinged with a visceral pop. The dampness intensified; open mouth stupidly slobbering onto the soaking sheets. It all snapped back into place with a click – gums itching like Novocaine wearing off, scissor-vicious fangs severing delicate tissue. He dry-heaved and lost something of an organ to the floor. His arm snapped and the metal limb; unchanged, dislodged – 

Broken thought—image—scent. Smell of decay. Of perfume. Tea. Gunpowder. Metal. Human. 

Back hitting the floor. Rolling off bed. Opp—Opposite action, that.

Losing control.

Ripped pillows. Blinking and – 

Dent in the wall.

Hole in the door.

Flashing colorless lights. Used to be red.

Everything gray. Cold.

Like his hand.

Like him.

Cold floor. Cold room.

Isolation.

…Waking in the dark filled with sick and shame; naked and down to a visible disability. Crawling into a dirty corner and hugging his knees until someone came to get him. To reattach his cyborg digits and reacquaint him with the idea of a shower. Of normality. Of bed and safety and…home. 

McCree used to be all about the gains.

But he’d settle for what he already had.

That, and his beloved control. 

However much of that he had left.  
 


End file.
